Duet of a Dying Planet

Photographs by Kevin Sparrow

Of all the arguments against global warming, there’s one denial that’s abjectly stupid yet insidiously, and objectively true. I call it the Louis Armstrong argument for the denial of climate change. This dumb argument persists despite an irrefutable body of scientific study. It remains true in the face of the most cogent, persuasive logic. It’s true right outside my window. The argument is summarized in the crooning of a jazz trumpeter. Baby, it’s cold outside.

The argument, of course, misses the point. But in Wisconsin we can at least agree that it is unforgivingly, agonizingly cold out. Deep freeze is okay earlier in winter. Warm holidays invoking scenes of plastic yard reindeer wilting on a patch of Arizona desert are actually worse than the cold. Warm holidays make me miss cold weather ardently. Sure, you probably don’t want to be plied with alcohol and held against your will by a jazz legend, but at least you can welcome a crisp December morning with a visible plume of breath that escapes from your lips like a sustained note from a brass instrument.

By March I’m less sanguine about the cold. By now I’ve pretended to enjoy ice skating — an activity that improbably combines wobbling and sniffling. By now the holiday lights are packed but the risk of getting impaled by an icicle still hovers incredulously above zero percent. By March my enthusiasm for the daily bike commute can be dashed with the slightest obstacle. I didn’t ride yesterday because my Spotify daily mix included dee-lite. The groove might be in the heart but it’s sure the hell not in the snowbanks.

Like any Wisconsinite with generational roots that stretch back to stoic Norwegians in search of cheap lumber and bountiful fish to ruin in a boil, my relationship with cold is complicated. I don’t think I could live in a warm weather place like Arizona. That lifestyle seems to accompany more than just a wardrobe change. It requires a two-door sports coup in a putrid color like cool violet or canary yellow. It would seem to require more hair gel than I could reasonably afford. It comes with a copious supply of Captain Morgan to be slurped through straws to a soundtrack of Guns n’ Roses. The thinking is that warm climates are frivolous while cold climates are not. Dostoevsky wrote about Russia. Axl Rose wrote about the Sunset Strip. The eternal question is whether one is willing to sacrifice depth for warmth.

While Los Angeles is the city of dreams, Milwaukee is the city of frostbite. We’re not a city big on dreams because dreaming without proper shelter leads to life-threatening ailments. We have dreams. But we also have heating bills that render those dreams less vivid. The cold provides this one essential service. It forces your attention to the present.

Every four years we’re treated to a winter reality that’s relatable to no one. I’ve lived in cold weather for most of my life. And like most well-adjusted people with life responsibilities, I’ve never “luged” — in fact I’m not even sure if “luge” is a verb. I don’t know if “curl” is a verb either. I know that “ski” is a transitive verb describing fun that happens within a very narrow geographical band. In the United States this area is known by very expensive nouns like Veil, Aspen, and Tahoe — and associated with extremely archaic words like lodge, gondola, and pole.

Here in Milwaukee our version of cold is notoriously unfun. Spring, which is apparent on the calendar yet indecipherable in wardrobe, is supposedly right around the corner. Climate change is still dire and depressing, but the subtle paradox that it’s freezing out is not lost on someone stuffing hand warmer packets down their pants. To be sure, the important battles over policy should be waged by writers. When the scientific community coins an expression like “global warming,” it may seem apt and descriptive to them, but it doesn’t inspire much urgency from the guy with his tongue stuck to the flagpole. Admittedly, he’s the least important ally in the fight against climate change, but good words are even stickier than a frozen pole.

In the frequent moments when I wonder whether I should have worn two pairs of wool socks on my bicycle commute, there’s nothing more soothing to my ears than the word “warming.” By April I’ve begun to regard the abstract idea of warmth as the most glorious thing one could encounter this side of paradise. It’s enough to make me want to buy a canary yellow sports coup to cruise the Sports Clips franchises of Southern Phoenix. If only I didn’t live in a city that routinely makes me feel like Han Solo frozen in a slab of carbonite.

This is how we talk about the cold here. But the truth is much harder to define. Like the contours of a cloud of warm breath on a frigid day, it’s an ephemeral beauty that vanishes in a flash. I would miss the smell of coffee. The red cheeks of my children. The warmth of my wife’s smile. I would miss the bike rides where there’s no one else on the trail because it’s ten degrees outside and — well, who has that many socks?

Being cold sucks. Not having cold is worse.

I believe the planet is in peril. I must also capitulate to the Louis Armstrong Denier Theory. Yes, baby, it’s cold outside. But no, this doesn’t change how imperative it’s become to drive less, consume less, want less — it just means I’ll be driving, consuming, and wanting less while wearing four pairs of socks. If we had let the writers shape the argument, we wouldn’t call it global warming. We would have called it “near-term extinction.” And the song wouldn’t be a jazz duet. No, It’s the End of The World as We Know It (and I feel cold).

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